


Defrost

by sfumatosoup



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:31:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfumatosoup/pseuds/sfumatosoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh my dear lord. I know it's been like 7 or 8 months since my last update, but when I say I'm going to finish something, I mean it. I've finally got a second chapter and it's much bigger than the first. The dialogue is snappy and fun and I'm happy because I haven't written in awhile because my life has been crazy, but, it feels good to be back.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mechanicaljewel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicaljewel/gifts).



He wants to put a bullet right between Kabira's eyes.

“Please, make it quick,” the bastard requests, looking up at James.

He doesn't pull the trigger. Instead, he'll leave him to the mercy of MI6 and wash his hands of the whole mess. As James exits, he exchanges a brief glance with the two agents flanking the door; they acknowledge, draw their pistols and sweep past him inside. M, waiting just out front, receives him with a composed frown that does very little to disguise her anxiety.  

“Is he still alive?” She asks.

“He is.”

“I'm surprised,” M admits. Frankly, he's a little surprised himself.

James tugs up the collar of his coat as a crisp gust of wind blows around them. M's eyes narrow at him inquisitively, and the spy knows at once she's searching for an answer to a question she hasn't yet asked, however, his training is good and M is usually more subtle, therefore, tonight she finds herself squaring up against a brick wall.

James' shield remains firmly fixed, his impassive veneer impervious to M's scrutiny. She can glean nothing. She has no sense of the roiling brew of emotions battling inside of him, she has no idea how loud the roar is inside his head or how white his glove-concealed knuckles are, tightly clenched into fists at his sides. He wants to punch something, he wants to break something but he contains it well. Well enough, anyway, because no information, as they both know, is a tell in of itself. M is as shrewd as she is seasoned, and so of course she suspects there is more at work than he visibly admits, he can tell by the unconvinced, pursing of her lips. She does little to disguise her disapproval. 

James knows M has ascertained some degree of insight into the nature of his very personal and very less than professional entanglement muddling his latest mission. It's pretty overt and it won't be easy to gloss over in the reports without some concerted creative effort. He doesn't envy M's job. He knows he fucked up. She needs her instrument to be undamaged and he's not, but for her benefit as well as his future it's better if he pretend there's no reason not to clear him for future assignments. Avoiding a formal audit is mandatory for this and M is not entirely unethical. Of course, one doesn't achieve M's level of success by always neatly dotting the i's and crossing the t's due to the preventative bureaucratic ceiling inevitable in government service.

 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” M asks.

“I did,” James replies brusquely, carefully watching her face for any sign that she's listened through the even measure of his tone to hear the barely caged fury suppressed in the depths of it. 

“Good. I assume you have no regrets?”

“I don't,” he confirms, glancing back at M. “What about you?”

“Of course not. That would be unprofessional.”

A gentle dusting of snow falls down around them accumulating on the windshield of M's Bentley parked out in the street. From the corner of his eye, a small flicker of motion from inside the vehicle catches James attention. In under a second, he's scanned the source of the distraction, analyzed for any potential threat and calculated the response required to manage it. In this case, the source, once identified is disregarded since it is only M's driver, impatiently tapping on the steering wheel. It's easy to imagine the man is probably eager to return to the embassy and tuck in for the night. He can't blame him.

The cold is penetrating and James' is exhausted. At the closure of this emotionally draining and nothing less-than hectic mission, the lazy vision of unwinding in a comfortable chair by a warm fire with a tall drink is such an enticing prospect, it greedily bumps itself to top priority. He expects that home office will require a full debriefing, but frankly, to hell with them. He'll attend to those obligations at his own leisure. If he feels up to it. All things considered, he figures not even the Queen of England would begrudge him a little well-earned procrastination.

“They found Greene dead. In the middle of the Bolivian desert, of all places,” M reports. James pretends to look like this is news. “Two bullets in the back of his skull. They found motor oil in his stomach. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Wish I could help,” he replies disingenuously.

“You'll be glad to know, I straightened things out with the Americans. Your friend Leiter has been promoted. He replaced Beam.”

“Well, then the right people kept their jobs.”

“Something like that,” M concedes.

“Congratulations, you were right,” James admits because he knows she expects him to.

“About what?”

“About Vesper,” he grumbles. He can hear his voice strain on the name, the way it just barely comes out audibly and he resolves it will be the last time he'll speak it again. M's satisfaction is less evident than her concern for him and the sympathetic kindness that softens her typical dispassionate demeanor is all it takes for James to inwardly crumble. He drops his gaze before making his intention clear that he wants to neither speak nor hear anything more on the painful subject by ending the conversation. Mumbling a brief but courteous, “Ma'am,” the agent takes his leave, brushing past M without further explanation.

“Bond.”

The agent sighs and turns back around to hear what more she has to say.

“I need you back.”

Of course she does.

“I never left,” He informs her.

As he walks away, he drops Vesper's necklace into the snow behind him. He feels the sleek chain slip from between his gloved fingers as it's released; the weight exorcised from the palm of his hand and he feels no regret. Having cast away this last memento, in his own way, he bids farewell to her ghost.

A deep, heavy sense of loneliness clings after him in it's wake and all he wants now is to forget.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my dear lord. I know it's been like 7 or 8 months since my last update, but when I say I'm going to finish something, I mean it. I've finally got a second chapter and it's much bigger than the first. The dialogue is snappy and fun and I'm happy because I haven't written in awhile because my life has been crazy, but, it feels good to be back.

The dark cloaks James, allowing him some privacy in it's concealment. Irrepressible heartache and self-loathing tug him down, and he's self-consciously aware he wears it heavily.

Thankfully, here in Kazan, it should be child's play to find just the pub to drown his woes. Among the snow-blurred amalgam of lavish Old-Empire teahouses, modern office building and construction sites are an endless offering of nightclubs and quaint, village-style taverns.

Every street corner touts it's own version of Mother Russia's bottled best, and while James is not entirely fluent in the language, he can reasonably decipher the glaring neon letters of the signs clearly enough to ascertain that what they provide are antithetical to the camouflage he longs for tonight.

With experience comes discernment.

Years ago, his unswerving faith in Queen and Country; his earnest belief in and respect for authority and the knowable integrity of it's structure, supplemented by a keen, incurable sense of wanderlust lured James to enlist.

But, it was a beautiful delusion that deteriorated rapidly in his service as a new recruit to Her Majesty's Royal Navy. Naivety is always embarrassing in retrospect. He laughs at himself bitterly now for imagining this vocation could ever wholly embody all it represented in his boyhood fantasies.

At the time, he'd readily bought into this greatly inflated promise for adventure hook line and sinker, and though he could smell adventure, so close it bated, it always seemed to lay just out of reach. It was like a siren's call, and relentlessly it sang to him, enticing him to leap into the fray. The world beyond, in his claustrophobic imagination was teeming with the dark violence of unknown danger and he didn't know whether he wanted to fight it or join it, all he knew for sure was something in him yearned to be among it, belong to it. He pined for it, but, he thought if only he could stick it out in the Navy, there might be a light at the end of the tunnel, yet the longer it was denied him, the greater the intensity of his desire became. The strain of suppression was erosive, eating away at the bars of his cage until they were brittle enough to break. Finally he was free, all last vestiges of his stubborn determination to believe in the unbelievable fell away; his liberty manifesting in an absolute clarity of vision.

In the end it took only a single, rebellious observation by James as an under-challenged, over-ambitious young officer, to solidify his disillusionment. Throughout the ranks, he couldn't help but notice a disturbing inconsistency with the quality and capability of his fellow officers. It was glaringly obvious that there were those who benefited frequently by an unspoken preferential treatment, enjoying exclusive inclusivity, leniency by superiors, and birthright comradery. Though his own lineal ties granted him this privilege as well, it rankled, and through gritted teeth James would witness under-qualified sucklings nursing infant political pipe-dreams riding the coat-tails of their father's name while those more worthy lagged in the fringe, unrewarded, striving to be noticed.

The hypocrisy and injustice in a system that promoted antiquated influence and affluence before talent was not what bothered him, it was that merit alone was immaterial. Strength built by false substance is an illusion, and therefore weak. There could be no authentic pride or satisfaction found within serving contrivance. This revelation did not diminish his patriotism, but it did shake his belief in the power of his nation and it did serve to strengthen his resolve that he needed to find a better way to protect Her.

More importantly, it opened a door to a foundling vigilantism.

For all this, his decidedly best course was to take advantage of his military career. In the end it would bare fruit in the way of recommendation to special services. He imagined there, he would have a chance to find a satisfying calling.

In the interim, James remained faultlessly obedient however mutely critical he felt as he studied the broken system he once idolized, learning it adeptly enough to abuse it. He became an adept actor excelling in a masterful repertoire of artifice, and his web of lies, though sometimes colorful or intricate, were always believable. He used them to cut short any engagement with his fellow officers, pacify any suspicious superior. He'd even procured a secure network of reliable alibis and then, he'd escape to explore the unregimented, untamed, unpredictable world he'd always longed for.

Every shore leave was maximized to it's fullest potential. Each infrequent, allotted increment of pseudo-freedom was used to sate his growing thirst. Back then, for a time, nothing was more exotic than the quick fights and quick fucks in seedy bars and back alleys. Nothing was more exhilarating than getting pissed blind and knocking elbows with the grimiest brutes in the dingiest vermin-infested hovels or waking up tangled in the sheets of a stranger's bed at 4 in the morning with room-spins only to have to solve the puzzle of finding his uniform amid the clutter before working out the most expedient route back to base in a race against the clock to report in for duty.

The harder, the faster, the dirtier and the more dangerous it was, the better. The appeal never wore off, but his tastes matured as his upwardly mobile ambitions bore fruit. A few promotions and a career advancement later found James bumping elbows with the privileged elite in exclusive clubs and private resorts. Consorting with society's glamorous upper-echelon had it's own seductions. Certainly wining, dining, racing around in flashy cars and wearing designer labels suited him, it was a lifestyle his family name alone should have groomed him to appreciate, but he'd seen little appeal until he'd experienced it's practical utilization benefit his professional interests.

Little compares to the thrill of gambling in high-stakes tournaments against international criminals or skiing in the Alps between chasing after high-paid assassins. In this world, he can steal pleasure in clandestine escapades with exquisite women all while acquiring the vital information he needs to apprehend their international terrorist husbands.

In short, he's been around.

In just under a decade of jaunting about the globe, James has intimately experienced the garish, the vile, the elegant and the pedigree and it's had the benefit of giving him a remarkably discriminating set of preferences-- preferences he's had to modify given his present circumstances.

Usually, after a particularly grueling mission, a homeward retreat for a cocktail at the kitchen counter would suffice nicely, and as James trudges through the snow, it's with a keen sense of longing that he thinks about his London flat. But, for the time being, he's stuck in an unfamiliar city, lodged in a bare-bones closet with a faulty radiator in the dead of Russian winter and the closest to paradise he will find tonight is in the bottom of a bottle. Tonight, he wants a dim, forgettable dump within reasonable walking distance.

Tucked innocuously between a block of soviet-era tenement houses and a broken down railway station is a small, rustic pub with a nearly illegible hand-scrawled 'open' sign. Through the steam-fogged windows, James can see a roaring fire blazing from a hearth inside. Fearing the onset of frostbite, this sells him.

Upon entering, the frigid draft from behind is immediately consumed by a wafting swell of blessed heat, and though assaulted by an unexpectedly loud din of laughter, bad music and the unpleasant odor of stale sweat, alcohol, and poorly filtered, thick fumes of smoke acrid enough to sting his eyes, it's a compromise he's willing to make for the evening.

After stomping off the slush caked over his shoes, James sweeps a glance over the room and observes that the majority of the patrons are concentrated toward the front. The crowd consists primarily of a rugged assortment of men, companionably shoulder-slapping and pointing to the televised game on the small screen over the bar. A scattering of individuals are either immersed in conversation with each other or huddled over, nursing their drinks or calling out orders at the harassed-looking barkeep. Toward the center, smaller groups occupy the tables and a throng of young men snorting with laughter seem to have laid a permanent claim to the seating around the hearth, much to the scowling consternation of their neighbors.

In James estimation, for all intents and purposes, he's chosen well. The crowd is just dense enough to ignore the stranger.

After squeezing through to the counter to order a drink, he scopes out the rest of the place for an open spot. The glow from the fire casts enough light to assist the feeble, flickering wall lamps, but the tavern is otherwise dim and the shadows in the corners of the room appear dense and promising. Squinting until his eyes adjust, James locates a vacancy and nudges his way carefully, glass in hand to the lonely oasis that will serve him well for it's privacy.

He doffs his coat before draping it over the back of his chair and settles in, and it's surprisingly comfortable for all it's wear, but the problem is the small wooden table is too far away to sit his drink on. Hooking his foot around the leg, he drags it closer, wincing as it makes an unsettling, shrill squeak across the floorboards.

Paranoid, James glances around to see if his accidental commotion has invited any attention. Still thankfully ignored, James relaxes back, and takes a strong sip from his glass, delighting in the clean burn of vodka spreading it's warmth through his stiff limbs aching from overuse and too long a walk in the cold.

He thinks he would probably be in a damn good mood if he weren't so miserably unhappy. It's an absolute mystery why he thought falling in love was a good idea. But then again, it wasn't like he intended to. Instead, it occurred rather naturally, defiant and outside his control. She wormed her way in, broke down his defenses, stripped away every last bit of his armour... And for a fleeting moment in time, he was hers and that could have been everything. But then the bitch lied. And then, of course, she goes and dies.

James blinks in confusion at his empty glass of melting ice. He doesn't remember finishing it.

It's a fucking tragedy.

Glaring down at the source of his most recent betrayal he doesn't quite notice right away the soft clearing of a throat in front of him.

“Replacement?” 

James blinks at the sudden appearance of a hand holding a glass in front of his face. He jolts away slightly in surprise, and evidencing proof of his own exhaustion by the mere fact that he even reacted is annoying. He knows better.

“Apologies, didn't mean to scare you. The bar is a bit full, thought I might spare you the hassle.”

Staring at the offered drink, James glaces at the front of the room to verify the stranger's story and finding it unfortunately true, debates accepting it. He could, and grunt out a thanks but that would obligate him to unwanted company, and he could take the drink and snap out something unfriendly but the odds of provoking an unintentional confrontation are too high and that too, is not only unappealing, but he's fairly certain his deeply ingrained sense of etiquette denies him that ability. Either way, regardless of whether he takes it, he knows better than to actually imbibe it.

About to decline the drink with highly probable, obligatory company included as courteously as he can, several excuses and counter excuses already primed on his tongue, he at last registers the coveted drink in the hand is attached to a tall man with striking features, striking wardrobe choices, and striking, unnaturally platinum, overly coiffed hair.

“Not going to stand here all night,” the stranger informs him, sounding a little exasperated but mostly good-humored about it.

James initial gut reaction, judging by the sleazy high-rolling look of the man, is out-right rejection, but the stranger smiles down at him anyway,  not offended in spite of his poorly received response of James' apparent revulsion.

“I hate to decline,” James starts.

“Then don't.”

The spy studies the blonde for a moment, and he stumbles feebly over the cache of his many ready-made, preformed brush-offs in his head, abandoning them when he registers a flicker of something behind the man's friendly eyes sparkling with amusement that he recognizes. It's something dangerous. It speaks to him and James feels a spike of adrenaline, a rush of excitement he can't resist poking at.

_Interest._

The man recognizes it the same moment he feels it, and then he realizes after the fact that he's betrayed himself and the stranger attacks the opportunity.

“Raoul,” he tells James, offering his palm to shake hands as soon as the spy finally takes the drink because he knows he's lost his choice in the matter. His grip is strong and damp from the condensation off the glass, but warm in spite of it.

“Jim. Thank you.”

“You're welcome, _'Jim'_ ,” He replies, exaggerating a skeptical emphasis on the name he's given. “You seem more like a 'James' if you were to ask me.”

James frowns a little.

“Prada? Tom Ford? _Please_ , you're a James.”

“I didn't ask you, I told you.” The spy retorts sharply, hoping to get his message across with a cool, unimpressed look. The blonde dismisses this with an unconvinced eyebrow raise.

“Jim it is, then, pleased to meet you, Jim.”

Fringing on unsafe territory by even entertaining this particular stranger, it's with deep regret he didn't think to give the man a less personal alias. It shows the mark that he needs a long vacation. Possibly a longer one than previously anticipated.

“You won't mind if I pull up a chair and join you,” Raoul asserts, pulling up a chair. The presumption is incontestable.

“Of course not,” James replies, for the sake of correcting any misapprehension that 'Raoul' is interjecting himself sans invitation--which of course he _is_. Admittedly, he's intrigued and this has somehow trumped any of his lingering prior antisocial intentions for the evening, so, he plays.

Raoul initiates with, “Cold night, isn't it?”

James isn't fond of small talk. “What's with the drink?” He asks, straight to the point.

“You looked like you would need another soon and I could not resist a random act of kindness.”

“Here for the game?” James asks, knowing he isn't.

The blonde quirks a grin in his direction. “Depends on the game.”

“I'm not interested.”

“Oh, am I boring you?” Raoul asks with a theatrical gasp, pretending astonishment.

“I'm not gay,” James clarifies.

“No, you _do_ look like you're down in the dumps,” Raoul agrees, deliberately misunderstanding him.

James sighs, annoyed, welcoming his companion to notice that.

“Slumming it then?”

“Solitude,” James replies succinctly.

“Then I've intruded,” the blonde concludes, following up with no apology.

“I'm reconsidering,” he amends.

Raoul smiles. “I'm flattered.”

James is starting to grow weary, tired of talking in vapid circles though his new companion seems to be just warming up with it.

“I gather you're a brass tacks sort.”

“Intuitive,” James sardonically commends, idly stirring his drink and watching Raoul carefully for anything promising of more interest than he's initially presented.

“You're trying to see if I'm worth wasting another minute on before shooing me off,” the blonde acknowledges with a hint of amusement curling his lips into another grin. A flash of white teeth are revealed when he does so, and it feels predatory.

“We're stagnating,” James informs him feigning boredom. He's fascinated by whatever it is lurking beneath the man's facade and provoking him, he considers, might actually be the key to that door. He comes off as a narcissist. Narcissists desire validation that they're special. “I just don't think you're as interesting as you want to make people believe.”

For once, no immediate rejoinder. The man is silent, studying him, figuring him out. It's unfortunately not terribly challenging for him by the look of the damned grin that reappears.

“You're bating me. That's not wise.” Raoul's bite is sharp and he does it through an easy smile. “Clever. Very clever, but not wise.”

James offers an insouciant shrug. “Brass tacks. Think about it. As far as I know, I've got no reason to charm you nor reason to argue. I don't know you and I'll never see you again.”

The man bristles at this, openly offended, and he's pretty sure it's genuine. Possibly the first genuine emotion he's read from him tonight. “Maybe you're not doing your part to uphold a proper rapport,” He accuses petulantly. “No, you, my dear, are a lying liar. You find me very interesting.”

James feigns a yawn out of sheer impudence in response to this. 

“Why are you still talking to me?” Raoul points out, leaning forward in his chair, “Why not simply tell me to move along?”

“I'm trying to figure that out myself,” James replies, shrugging. He watches Raoul take a measured sip of his cocktail without breaking eye contact. “Why are you interesting?” He asks the man bluntly.

“Do you find me so or would you like me to provide an explanation for usurping your precious time?”

“Let's say I do find you interesting.” He's aware he's shifting into basic alpha male posturing with this, but it's all for sport anyway. He won't see this stranger again after tonight.

“Very enigmatic! Are you posing a hypothetical, or do you not know your own thoughts well enough to understand such a phenomenon?”

“Perhaps I'm giving you a chance to explain why I'm still entertaining this conversation.”

Raoul narrows his eyes at James, staring at him shrewdly. “Your arrogance has been bordering on rude, you're absolutely indifferent as to whether you offend me.”

“But you're still here,” the spy argues, chuckling softly,“Why?”

“The pleasure of your company?” Raoul offers. “Perhaps I've very recently discovered my inner masochist?”

James laughs. “You must be hard up.”

Raoul relaxes back in his seat, casually crossing his legs. “You don't give yourself much credit,” He says, resting his defenses. He's confident in regaining the upper hand. “By the way, I can't help notice you haven't touched a drop of your drink.”

“I make a rule out of avoiding drinking anything given to me by strangers.”

“But we aren't strangers anymore,” Raoul pouts, pretending he's hurt.

James watches as the blonde snatches the neglected beverage in question. “It's not poison,” he adds before taking a healthy sip. James watches him swallow the liquid, the rise and fall of his adam's apple. Afterward, Raoul opens his mouth wide proving he wasn't faking, and sure enough the glass is less full than it was before. “Here,” he says, offering the rest of the drink back. James, relieved, accepts it this time because he really does need a second drink.

“Thank you, then,” he mutters reluctantly. “Genuinely.”

“Man-to-man, it's unusual to decline a drink, I could understand if you were a woman alone, or perhaps in a particular occupation...” Raoul considers, his small smirk at the spy heavy with implication.

“Nothing personal, but, too personal,” James says, cutting him off.

“That's alright, I didn't come here to talk business,” the blonde states.

And that single statement alone, raises the small hairs on the back of James' neck. He suspects that this man either knows exactly who he is, or could, very easily if he wanted to. It's the former possibility that has him tense.

“Ah, now I've gone and worried you, Jim! That's not very polite of me. Let me assure you, I have no nefarious schemes hidden up my very expensive sleeve.”

Really, his sleeves do look suspiciously expensive. His entire ensemble looks more painfully out of place than his own, and it does feel too coincidental for two over-dressed men to choose this very same establishment in the same evening. The uncertainty is stressful. He can't get a good gauge on him and he's accustomed to being better at reading people. If he knew without a doubt this man posed a threat in anyway at least he'd know how to handle the situation.

“Do you know who I am?” James asks carefully. There is no tremor in his voice, there never is, but the discomfort is nevertheless evident.

“Of course! You're Jim. We just met,” Raoul laughs with genuine frankness. He's possibly a very good liar. “I promise you I don't know you, but your paranoia speaks volumes for itself and it's very, very obvious. You might want to get a handle on that, my friend, in your line of work, that can't be a good thing.”

“In my line of work,” James repeats, perturbed, his fight or flight response kicking up a storm beneath what he hopes is nonchalance. It might be bleeding through anyway by the amused grin plastered across Raoul's face.

James grimaces as his companion has a laugh at his expense. “'Do you know who I am?'” Raoul parrots, chuckling and dabbing his eye, “Who even asks that? Were you for real?” James lack of reply is a good enough answer itself. “You were? You really were? I can't believe it! I mean, if I didn't think you weren't truly afraid of me for that strange second I'd think you're some kind of soap opera villain threatening me,” he exclaims, “But all this makes me think you're actually running from someone. Is it the feds? No, let me guess, MI6? Of course it's MI6, you're British after all aren't you?”

“Good detective work,” James responds drolly.

“Ah, I was right! MI6 is hunting you down, you dog! Is there a price on your head?” He's hit closer home than he thinks on that one. James sighs and waits for the blonde to work it out of his system. Self-conscious of the racket his companion's laughter is making, he covertly scopes out the rest of the bar to ensure they're still ignored.

“My dear, you are priceless, I almost feel like it's too mean of me to keep playing with you this way. But in my defense, it's really fun. I should stop though, I don't want to get you in trouble with your boss.” Raoul is giving him a headache. He can't tell whether he's being overly paranoid and reading too much into what the bastard is saying, or if he's sadistically wearing him down before he goes in for the kill. He considers that now would be either a good time to change tactics and move into less volatile territory or get the bloody hell out.

“I'll tell you something in earnest,” he offers Raoul, “But it's quid pro quo, understand?”   
“Noted.”

“I've had a bad day, I'm in a terrible mood, I came here to get shit-faced alone and I'm not bloody fond of bull-shite. You want something, you should spell it out.”

“I was looking for a laugh, maybe a romp. At least a smoke. Up for any of that?”

“You want a cigarette?” James asks in disbelief.

Raoul blinks back at him, equally amazed. Or amused. Frankly, he's been amused for most of their interaction so it's not a stretch. “First off, it's funny that that's what you're hung up on. Secondly, I have my own,” he replies, padding his breast pocket to prove it before removing a slender silver case and slipping out a cigarette. James joins him, because that's the only thing he can do. Raoul is finished lighting his first. “SIS then, right?”

James chokes on his first inhalation, coughing up the acrid smoke until he's sure his face and eyes are shot red with the struggle. “What?” He manages to ask, throat tight.

“Obviously you can't confirm it, and you could try to lie about your occupation, pretend you're an accountant or something, but you are, unfortunately for you and hilariously for me, awful at lying to me about anything and I definitely like that about you,” Raoul explains, “And so therefore I'm going to reiterate my previous answer to your earlier question. I came for a laugh, maybe a romp and a smoke. I've had my laugh and I've had my smoke, now, my place or yours?”

James considers for the first time that he hasn't asked this man the right question yet. He's stunned when he realizes he hasn't.

“Who are you?”

Raoul shakes his head, unimpressed. “Wow. I really thought we'd moved past this. Perhaps you suffer some sort of memory glitch? Does your programming need repair?”

“No,” James demands, “Who are you really?”

“That is such an irrelevant question! what I do and who I am are different answers, and the same goes for you. The rest is all trivial.”

“I can agree to those terms,” James concedes. But, it's without true conviction.

Raoul sighs with exasperation. "They weren't terms. There are no terms. This isn't some business arrangement. I'm trying to be a human being with you, but you're kind of a hard case."

James has the good sense to at least appear contrite. 

“For the sake of my pride I can't repeat my offer,” Raoul sighs, “I do want you in my bed but you're only worth so much trouble.”

James reasons with himself before making his decision. As far as he can see, no matter how he looks at it, either way they go there could be a trap waiting on the other end. If he declines, he will go back to his place alone, and still, it might be a trap. If he goes alone, he could contact HQ, alert them of the situation. However, there is the likelihood it's not a trap and then he'll never live down the embarrassment. In the end, he realizes, he made his bed and now he has to lay in it. Even if he's walking to some unknown fate, it's more fun than wallowing in grief and self-regret. And honestly, he's intrigued, extremely suspicious, but very intrigued.

“Yours,” James answers daringly.

Elated by the good news, Raoul's shark-like grin spreads across his face. “You will be,” he promises.


End file.
